


A Cracked Mirror

by LeFay



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Exile, F/M, One Shot, POV Cardan Greenbriar, Post-Book 2: The Wicked King, Revenge, post twk, tcp, twk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 10:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18221858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeFay/pseuds/LeFay
Summary: “I’m a mirror,” she shouts, “I’m the mirror you don’t want to look at.”Stupid Taryn.





	A Cracked Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> set about a month after TWK, Cardan POV, gets a little violent at the end, spoilers  
> The Folk of the Air series and all of its characters belong to Holly Black

I wake in bed as the last rays of the sunset dip below the horizon. The canopy of flowers above me shimmers into bloom and the vines on the bedposts begin to twist and grow. A new twilight in Elfhame begins.

I cannot stop myself from looking over to the empty side of my bed. I know that no one else rests there. I know I am alone. I can no longer drum up feelings of self-loathing, neither for my own pathetic loneliness nor for the part I played in its coming to pass. I made my bed and now I lie in it.

The silk sheets are tangled around my naked body as though I fought them in my sleep. Somewhere in my subconscious are remnants of a dream, not holy unpleasant, but the memories are losing focus as the images slip deeper into the foggy corners of my mind. It seemed like a peaceful dream but the emotion currently growing into prominence feels like anger.

I stand and begin the perfunctory motions of readying myself for court. The glittering wash bin is, as always, filled with cool, fragrant water and sprinkled with fresh petals. My paints are laid out on the counter, brushes cleaned and ready. I used to enjoy dressing up, finding fun in a faerie pastime of costume and color. Now the process bores me and feels more than a little superficial.

Another revel this evening, the thirtieth in so many days. I do not recall what we are celebrating anymore. Perhaps it is the peace treaty with the Undersea, officially signed and sealed weeks ago. Perhaps it is the reconstruction of the Court of Shadows, no longer a secret hideout but a public hall for billiards and gatherings. The idea was to rebuild a coalition of spies hiding in plain sight.

Most likely this revel has something to do with the recently negotiated and still precarious union with the Red Cap Army, the name for Madoc’s new military force, comprised entirely of my former military force. In exchange for payment and a permanent voice on the high council, Madoc has agreed to loan out his soldiers for the local protection of the realm. This does not mean that his soldiers would come to the court’s defense, should an attack occur. It does not mean that my former guards have taken up their former posts. It certainly does not mean that Madoc wouldn’t join forces with the Court of Moths or the Court of Termites or any other court should its leader choose to mount an assault against Elfhame.

All this arrangement has done is allow Madoc to disperse his own soldiers and spies throughout the kingdom while also charging a fee from the crown. I am not unaware of the severe disadvantage this puts me in, but I have yet to find a way to solve the problem of a renegade general who possesses officially appointed independent military status. Status officially appointed by me during a moment of confusion and stupidity.

And it is with that thought, a memory of a night that feels both decades and merely hours old, that the reason for my heightened ire is brought to my attention: for the first time since Jude’s exile, Taryn will be in attendance at court.

Madoc’s demands included Taryn’s return to the gentry society. Although Locke continued as Master of Revels, Taryn has shown unusual intelligence by remaining within the grounds of Madoc’s estate since our last meeting. That all changes tonight when, as agreed, I will welcome her with open arms and a public acknowledgement of her return to court.

I finish rinsing my face and look up to scowl in the mirror. Taryn did nothing to deserve her current place of protection. She gained Madoc’s shield simply by being born. She gained Locke’s hand by spreading her legs. She has none of her sister’s ingenuity or cunning; she simply has her face.

And yet, that was enough to fool me.

Shaking my head to rid myself of thoughts of that night, I choose a deep red paint with shining highlights and draw a simple pattern on my eyelids and lips. My hair has grown longer yet still refuses to be tamed by a comb. It hangs wild and I brush it back, off my forehead.

I shrug into the ornate doublet and velvet pants that a servant has left out for me. I force myself not to glance at the wardrobe in the corner of the room, the one with the secret passage through the palace. Jude once climbed through it after she scaled the castle hill upon her return from the Undersea. I know that the passage has been blocked now, leading to a dead end.

Before leaving my rooms I stop at the small side table near the bedroom doors. There are two objects waiting to be added to my attire. One is a knife, a slick dark blade that I now carry on me, concealed at all times. The other has become both the bane and the life force of my existence: the most powerful object in all of Elfhame, my crown.

It’s nothing more than metal, finely wrought and twisted and sculpted by skilled hands and fancy words. Yes, it gleams and shines and glitters, although it has looked rather dull recently, to my eyes at least. More than once these past few weeks I have snatched it with vicious hate and made to hurl it against the stonewall. Even now, I allow myself a brief moment to relive the absurd fantasy of casting it into the sea the day I banished Jude. In that version of events I go with her, away from faerie and into the mortal realm as the sea boils and rises behind us.

Of course, these childish imaginations feel even more ludicrous as I place the crown on my head and leave my rooms, heading for the great hall, a retinue of new guards falling in pace behind me. It real does feel heavy. But if I cannot bear this burden then all the burdens she bore will have been for nothing.

 

*

 

I sit on the throne, irked and not drunk enough, watching the mindless twirling and twisting of the crowd of bodies before me. Some nights I join them, guzzling wine and mead and allowing all pretense of propriety to disappear. Other nights I find myself entirely disgusted by the frivolousness and carefree ways of the fae.

The revel is in its second hour and the guests of honor are expected soon. I’ve decided I will not give Taryn and Locke a fanfare. I will not even call for a cease to the dancing. They can stand on the dais and shout to be heard above the revelry. I imagine Taryn has practiced some banal, trite phrase. Locke probably has a matching arrogant quip prepared. I will allow them each one nicety and no more before sending them back into the crowd.

To my right is Liliver, standing in the place reserved for the monarch’s seneschal. She plays the role well and has taken on all the official responsibilities. I suppose all those in attendance at court assume she now holds the position, although I have not bestowed upon her the official title. That she has never asked for it is a true mark of our mutual understanding of each other.

Still, tonight I do not wish to see her in the corner of my eye, standing in that particular place. I shift in my seat and turn my gaze to the other side of the hall. At that moment, the doors open wide and Locke and Taryn enter. Locke is wearing something sleek and fashionable while Taryn is nearly dwarfed by an immense deep green dress with silver trimmings and a decorated neckline. She turns her head towards the throne and –

I lose sense of all other sensations but sight. I am sure I stop breathing as my gaze snaps to her, tightening in intensity like the string on a crossbow as it is pulled into place. She looks directly at me and the metaphorical bolt strikes straight through my chest.

For the first time in over a month I see _her_. _Her_ eyes on _her_ face. This is not a dream that I chase through slumber and attempt to prolong by rolling over in bed and refusing to wake. This is not a false illusion brought on by sips of nevermore when the dancing is too dull or the wine too sour. This is reality. This is Jude in the full spectrum of true flesh and blood.

And yet it is not. The brown eyes that have met with my mine over the crowd are not Jude’s. The face that seems to brighten in the glow of fairy lights is not Jude’s. The body of curves that move and bend as it walks through the hall is not the body I once caressed in the room behind this very throne, the one I tried desperately to commit to memory.

But the resemblance is sickening nonetheless. Twins do not happen in Faerie. Each of us is unique and few of us bear any resemblance to each other, even next of kin. I attended lessons with Jude and Taryn for years. I watched them pass through revels much like this one many times. Logically, I know of their identical features and genetics. But I have been truly unaware of the disturbing double imagery of their existence until now. How grotesque is it that mortal copulation could result in two of the same creatures with the exact same physical appearance?

How must it have felt for Jude, to walk through her entire life with a living mirror?

And how weak am I to be rendered speechless by this pathetic copy?

I’ve told myself I do not miss her. I’ve even sold the same line to some gentry folk who were bold enough to ask. Of course, I have spies watching her. They are under strict instructions to do nothing but observe, leaving no room for interference in her new life or any choices she may make. They are also prohibited from telling me anything about what happens to her unless she comes to harm. It is easier to know nothing.

I knew that if I exiled her, it could not just be from Elfhame but must also be from my mind, and from other places that I do not care to examine, even now. I may not yet be able to banish her from my thoughts completely but I have become rather skilled at avoiding any reactions to those thoughts. It may be a precarious, fragile glass wall but it was working, if only just.

Taryn has just shattered all that work with her own reflection.

I feel rage, white-hot rage that rises up my throat like bile as she floats slowly through the hall, her arm wrapped around his. I watch in morbid fascination as _her_ lips curl into a grin when an acquaintance stops them to chat. She tilts her head and her hair, although styled far differently than her sister’s, catches the light in the same way and radiates the exact same shades of brown and gold.

They are at the dais now. Locke makes a mockery of a formal bow and rattles off some stupid comment about returning old friends to old places. I don’t bother looking at him.

Taryn waits until he is finished, “Thank you for extending this invitation to me, Your Majesty,” she speaks and I hear Jude’s voice spill from her mouth. “I am so very happy to be back home at court.”

_Back home at court._

Anger flashes through me like a spasm and my blood boils as her words ring violently in my ears. I could almost laugh at the absurdity of Taryn speaking this phrase, to me of all people. How is it that cowardly, supplicant Taryn commits treason by tricking the high king into a military disaster and gets welcomed back with a royal invitation? Meanwhile, her sister, who spent the greater part of the past year planning, plotting and poisoning herself in order to protect the realm has been banished from her home entirely?

And how is that both Duarte sisters, both _twins_ , have forced my hand in decreeing one’s exile and the other’s reprieve?

I sneer at her as she bows, looking to floor, so content to submit and bend to another’s will, to my will. Her posture is soft and compliant, like a toy doll folded into form. She has none of her sister’s strength, muscle or balance. She is demure in all the ways that Jude never was. Never could be.

Taryn looks up through her eyelashes and offers a shy smile. A disgusting taste fills my mouth. It is all I can do to dismiss them with barely an air of politeness. Behind them I see Madoc who sits at one of the tables, probably having watched the whole interaction. He nods his head toward me and gives me a look that I cannot decipher, although I am sure it is some form of power play.

I order a drink.

 

*

 

Several hours later I have seen enough. Taryn and Locke dance through dozens of songs. She enjoys honey cakes and tarts and even some sweet wine. He spins her around the room and presents her to their peers. I drink goblet after goblet, trying to wash away the taste of vomit as she smiles and twirls and clearly enjoys herself.

I can barely stomach the happiness I see on her face – _her_ face. I wince when she smiles and grimace when she speaks and hate myself all the more for being unable to avert my attention anywhere else. But what I cannot suffer, what I will not idly bide, is the sound that comes when Locke leans in close to her ear and whispers something that makes her laugh.

 _Her_ laugh.

It’s a sound I miss more than any other. One that I cherished in the past. One I have feared I will never hear again. One that I fear Jude will never make again. Because of me.

The anger and rage I have been fuming in all night come to a head and mix to form another, even more vile and pungent emotion: shame. Shame for being weak and poisoned. Shame for putting the realm in yet more danger by releasing its general from his vows to the crown. Shame for wanting to trust her and being caught doing it.

And the greatest shame of all: I should have known the difference. I should have known she wasn’t Jude.

“Bomb,” I call to my not-seneschal. My voice is rough.

She approaches the throne. “Yes, your majesty?”

“I am retiring for the evening,” I stand. “Tell Taryn Duarte that I wish to speak with her in my chambers. Alone.”

 

*

 

I pour a glass of wine and wait. I know exactly what I am going to do. I don’t even have to plan it, the actions are so clear in my mind it’s as if I’ve already committed the act. I wonder if this is how Jude felt during her duels after months of practice with her swords and knives. Although, in my case, tonight’s duel will come to pass without any practice on my part.

Taryn arrives a few moments later, with Locke. My doorman knocks and presents the couple.

“You sent for me?” she asks.

“Yes, I wish to have a short word,” I walk further into the sitting room, gesturing for her to follow. “Locke can wait outside.” If she hesitates, I do not see it.

I stand before the grand fireplace, which is as tall as my shoulder. No fire is lit so the room is dark, although my eyes see easily enough. Running along the mantel is a vine of morning glories, their buds twisted shut in the absence of sunlight. Taryn walks over and stands a few paces away from me.

To her credit she does appear uncomfortable to be meeting me here, alone, in my personal chambers. I see her eyes dart quickly to the bedroom doors and I think she is not entirely unaware of how her appearance affects me. I think back to Madoc’s nod and I wonder if that is why he wanted her access to court reinstated. Does he think she can still be useful in her likeness?

I know with certainty that after tonight she will never be useful in that way again.

“It is a good revel,” she attempts conversation, “I did miss dressing up.” Could she be goading me with silly attempts to paint her life in Faerie as a series of children’s games? I step closer, invading her personal space and raising a hand to grip the mantel just behind her, trapping her between me and the corner.

“You do not deserve to be here,” I tell her, my voice low and calmer than I expected. I can barely stop myself from sliding my knife free of my sleeve.

She looks at me curiously and then shocks me with, “I deserve it more than she does.”

In two seconds my hand is around her throat and I have her pinned against the wall.

She screams and her fear makes me smile. I press harder, lifting enough to force her to stand on tiptoe. She is a stupid, helpless thing in a frilly dress and too much makeup. Her hands reach up, trying to pull mine away. I am pleased that she looks nothing like Jude as her polished, manicured nails scrape uselessly against my sleeve.

“Cardan,” she croaks out, “let me – let me go!” She lifts a leg and kicks me with more strength than I expected. I topple to the side, releasing her. She falls to her knees and her breath comes back in deep gasps. I laugh from my spot on the floor.

“That wasn’t funny,” she admonishes, almost sounding angry but I can hear how scared she is. She may have been smart enough to land a blow but she is not smart enough to run away. I get back on my feet and tower over her. With practiced ease, I call on a magic that is becoming more familiar, although I have never used it like this before.

The morning glory vine slithers to life and grows beyond the mantel, twisting down around Taryn’s torso and pinning her arms to her sides. The vines pull her into a standing position and she is held still, helpless before me. I move closer and pull the knife from my sleeve. I can see terror in her eyes.

“What is this? Some sick revenge?” she may be trying to sound haughty but her voice is feeble. I feel a bit outside myself. I am going through these violent motions with an odd detachment. I bring the blade up slowly and pass it before her eyes.

When I do not respond to her question she spits my favorite line, “I hate you!” and she writhes against the bonds. “You tore my sister away from us. You caused her to betray our father and turned her against me. And then you exiled her!” she yelled, “You have destroyed my family!”

I can see the marks I am about to make, as though the outline is already printed on her skin. I think of Locke in the hallway, knowing he will spend the rest of his life – well, her life – looking at a scarred human face. I wonder if I should send for him to witness what I am about to do. I wonder if it would humiliate them both, for him to be forced to stand by and watch. Or would it hurt her more to have to run to him after, to be forced to relive it in order to explain it to him?

“Perhaps,” I agree as I bring the knife up to her face and press it against the delicate skin of her cheek, “but do not forget that several members of my family were murdered by several members of yours.”

“Not by me,” she refutes.

“Ah, that is where you are wrong, Taryn.” This is not entirely true, although it is true enough for me that I can say it out loud. Taryn’s actions led to me exiling Jude. And in more ways than one, more ways than I can ever admit to myself, Jude was my family. And now I am sure she considers herself dead to me.

“Jude will never forgive you if you hurt me,” she attempts one last supplication as I laugh and grip her throat once again, roughly turning her head and forcing her to look me straight in the face.

I give her my most malignant smirk, all the more acidic because I can practically taste the irony. “I have done many things that Jude will never forgive. Most of them, despite her belief in the contrary, have been done for her benefit.”

I grip the knife harder and begin to push down as I slowly, very slowly, pull the edge across her cheek. Thin, salty mortal blood rushes to spill out of the splice. I’m close enough to her to see her skin split open, the tug of the metal carving a deep wound across her left cheek. I feel the tip of the knife scrape bone. She makes an animal-like sound and struggles against my grip. Hey eyes are squeezed shut against the pain.

“But this,” I switch the blade to her other cheek, “this is for my benefit alone.” This cut I make quickly, a vicious gash that runs from the top of her cheek to her jaw line, curving slightly. She screams, long and loud, as tears run down her cheeks to pour salt in the wound.

I know this blade will leave a scar. I know that no magic will be able to repair the damage done to her face - a face that will never again mirror that of her twin.

They called me a cruel prince. They call me a wicked king. If they think I am bad, I will be worse. If they think I am cruel, I will be horrifying.

If I cannot have _her_ favor, then I will have her wrath.


End file.
